


And now I'm ready to feel your hand

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: Ineffable Tutors [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, I tagged this both book and tv because Harrison and Cortese aren't on the tv show, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, anyway to the laundry list, but it really fits more in the TV canon, in this house we love and respect the bois with facial hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: His mind drifts.  Drifts to thoughts of long fingers straightening a necktie, firm and yet gentle.  Purposeful in their precision.  Drifts to thoughts of green and navy.  Thoughts of lean well-turned calves hidden under that tartan pattern.  Drifts to a mop of crimson hair, blending to a rust red beard.  He wonders if it would be scratchy or soft; how it would feel against the soft skin of his neck as whispers are carried into his ear, spoken on a forked and silver tongue.His grip on the desk tightens, the wood underneath groans.  Five thirty-one.He’s late.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Tutors [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912819
Comments: 92
Kudos: 426
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	And now I'm ready to feel your hand

**Author's Note:**

> So Naniiebim posted [this art](https://naniiebimworks.tumblr.com/post/627635208233041920/if-anyone-will-write-a-sexy-fic-with-these-two-as) and mentioned wanting sexy fic of the tutors. Well, I blacked out, and now this exists xD.
> 
> Title is from the lyrics of I Wanna Be Your Dog by The Stooges, which is on Michael Sheen's official Spotify Good Omens playlist which... is a lot...

_Tick…Tick…Tick…_

Aziraphale scratches at the side of his face, an errant tickle that needs seeing to. Sees the second hand tick on his pocket watch, counting down the seconds and minutes closer to half past five.

He leans against the desk in the study, light casting long shadows as the sun starts to dip. Orange glow falling over the Persian rug, the mahogany desk, the dust motes drifting through the air. An eerie sort of silence. Not uncomfortable, but not peaceful either. A silence of anticipation, possibly of anxiousness. He checked his watch again. Five twenty-seven. Three minutes until his visitor.

Aziraphale swallows heavily, willing his pulse to calm down. They don’t do this sort of thing often, too dangerous. Too many eyes, from above and below, at the best of times. It’s been easier, here carrying on and raising Warlock — Heaven and Hell are both busy with their own preparations for the End and the close proximity is a given. No one even bats an eye.

He checks his watch again. Five twenty-nine.

His mind drifts. Drifts to thoughts of long fingers straightening a necktie, firm and yet gentle. Purposeful in their precision. Drifts to thoughts of green and navy. Thoughts of lean well-turned calves hidden under that tartan pattern. Drifts to a mop of crimson hair, blending to a rust red beard. He wonders if it would be scratchy or soft; how it would feel against the soft skin of his neck as whispers are carried into his ear, spoken on a forked and silver tongue.

His grip on the desk tightens, the wood underneath groans. Five thirty-one.

He’s late.

Maybe he isn’t coming. Maybe he changed his mind about this. It’s always been too dangerous, after all. It hasn’t been all that long since Aziraphale had him in the garden shed, back when he’d gone by Ashtoreth. They wait decades, sometimes centuries, between these moments. 

But Crowley’s voice is still echoing in his head. He can still see him leaning in, whispering. “Five thirty, I’ll be here.” Crowley says it differently, when this is what he wants. Puts a hint of temptation behind it. Not enough for Aziraphale to succumb, never enough for that. Just enough to give him the option. Just enough to entice that arousal to pool in his stomach. Just enough for him to know that it’s an offer. 

That _Crowley_ is on offer.

The door creaks open and Aziraphale smiles despite himself. Crowley looks for all the world nonplussed, but Aziraphale catches the anxious fiddling with his cufflinks. The shuffle to his step. The nerves that dance like lightning just under the surface of him. Aziraphale has always seen these things Crowley tries to hide.

Aziraphale perches himself on top of the desk as Crowley comes closer, neither of them daring to speak. Those long, gentle, and purposeful fingers come to rest on Aziraphale’s knees. That thin and lanky frame taking its place between Aziraphale’s legs. He’d like to keep Crowley there, he thinks. He fits there so well, like he belongs there. But that’s so true of everything, really. Crowley fits neatly into his life in every way. The spaces between their fingers, the Chesterfield in the back of the bookshop, and here, between his legs, coasting a gentle and tentative touch up the angel’s thighs.

“Mr. Cortese,” Crowley says, breathless already. Aziraphale has told him to be careful before, lest this hedonist angel get an ego about how much he’s able to affect him.

“Mr. Harrison,” Aziraphale counters, fingers drifting over the knot of Crowley’s tie, “did you have some business with me today that I’ve forgotten?” 

“Purely social call, I think,” Crowley says around a tremor in his voice. He can’t seem to figure out where to put his hands as they migrate from Aziraphale’s thighs to his lapels and back again; he seems to think better of it and rests them on the angel’s wrists instead.

“Of course, dear fellow, I always have time for you.” Aziraphale pulls him in by his tie, trailing kisses up that deliciously long line of neck. Crowley’s coarse beard tickles his cheek.

“ _Aziraphale,_ ” Crowley’s breath hitches as Aziraphale takes his earlobe between his teeth.

“Not in good form to break character, dear.”

“Fuck being in character. Just want you, angel.”

Crowley’s hands finally find a home buried in Aziraphale’s curls as he pulls him in for a kiss. It’s bruising and deep and desperate; everything Aziraphale wants it to be. Leave a mark, leave some pain. Something he can hold on to after this ends. Crowley’s nails rake through his fluffy white beard as Aziraphale licks into his mouth, tasting cinnamon and the smoky remnants of liquid courage. Explains why he was late.

Aziraphale pulls the tie loose, tosses it to the ground carelessly before pushing the lovely wool suit jacket off of Crowley’s shoulders. “Tartan, Crowley, really?”

Crowley kisses the corner of his mouth, works his way down his jaw, nuzzling into the soft fluff. “You think it’s stylish.”

“And you’re an absolute tart— _Ah!_ ” Aziraphale gasps as Crowley sucks a bruise into his skin, right where his jaw meets his neck. Aziraphale trembles under the sensation; Crowley takes the moment of distraction to work at Aziraphale’s waistcoat buttons.

“Do you have _any_ idea,” Crowley breathes more than asks into the skin of Aziraphale’s neck, “how ridiculously sexy you look like this?” In lieu of an answer Aziraphale kisses him again, letting Crowley rid him of his jacket and fold it neatly on the desk beside them.

“If I had known this would be the reception, I would have grown a beard out decades ago.” Aziraphale watches Crowley’s skin turn an absolutely delectable shade of pink, dusting the apples of his cheeks and drifting down his neck to the top of his chest. “I must say though, red is such a _lovely_ color on your skin.”

Crowley groans out a string of unintelligible noises as he drops to his knees, looking up at Aziraphale over the edge of his oval glasses as he works open the fly of Aziraphale’s trousers. “Angel?” He asks, looking up with bright yellow eyes as he unclips one of his braces and then the other.

“Yes, darling, please,” Aziraphale moans out as Crowley cups him through his trousers, just enough pressure to be maddening. Crowley smirks up at him before removing his glasses, a gesture that is so simple but speaks to more intimacy than Aziraphale’s heart is capable of processing at the moment.

The cool air of the study is like a shock as Crowley frees his erection and drags Aziraphale’s pants and trousers down around his ankles. Aziraphale wonders, momentarily, if it will be to Crowley’s liking. If he should’ve made it bigger or longer…if what Crowley sees will be what he wants. He’s not left to think on this long, as Crowley takes the tip between his lips, tonguing at the slit and tasting the precome already gathering there.

Aziraphale grips the desk hard, tries to keep his hips from bucking. Crowley’s always been able to do weird things with his tongue, and being on the receiving end is one of Aziraphale’s favorite places to be. Being taken apart and unravelled under the Serpent of Eden’s hands and mouth. He should feel guilty, as Crowley sinks onto him, taking his cock deep into his throat, stretching his lips around it obscenely. But in moments like this Aziraphale thinks Crowley was made to take his cock, made to impale himself on it. A delicious torture every time they are together, watching those lips form words and pull into smirks when they could be doing so much more. When they could be doing this.

Crowley’s hands are on his knees, pushing his legs apart, letting him take Aziraphale as deep as he can before pulling back and sinking down again. There will be red marks on Aziraphale’s thighs tomorrow from the scratch of Crowley’s beard, and he finds he doesn’t much care. Might spare a miracle to make them last longer, maybe no one will notice him relishing the sting of it.

 _Be still, be still, be still_ repeats in Aziraphale’s head. He doesn’t want to hurt Crowley, doesn’t want to buck up into him with reckless abandon. Crowley makes it difficult, running his tongue along the sensitive skin just below the head, pursing his lips over the tip when he pulls back. Aziraphale’s entire being is screaming for him to chase his pleasure in Crowley’s throat every time the demon swallows him down.

Crowley reaches out and takes one of his hands, lays it against his throat. Aziraphale can feel himself as Crowley pulls back and sinks back down. It’s too much, entirely too erotic. He moans Crowley’s name as he loses himself, bucking into Crowley’s mouth and burying his hand in the demon’s hair, gripping tight and pulling just the way he knows Crowley likes. He takes control, moves him in the rhythm he wants, relishes the way Crowley moans around his cock. Relishes the drag of his lips and his tongue, the wetness of his facial hair where it drags against his skin at the base. 

“Crowley, I won’t last, I’m going to—“

With a low moan that rumbles through Aziraphale’s entire being, Crowley grips his hips and sinks down on him, swallowing around his length. Aziraphale’s voice cracks and he shouts Crowley’s name as he spills down the demon’s throat, toes curling in his shoes and leg shaking, stars bursting behind his screwed-shut eyelids.

Crowley’s mouth is back on him before Aziraphale can open his eyes, crashing into him like a Bentley wrapping around a telephone pole. He tastes the salt of himself on Crowley’s tongue, feels the wet glide of scratchy hair across his skin as Crowley’s kisses work down his neck.

“Fucking _Hell_ , angel —”

“Oh, _Crowley —“_

They barely get words in between their lips and their tongues. Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s belt, intent on returning the favor as he trails kisses through the scruff of his face, down his jawline.

“What do you want, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks as he gets the belt undone, moving to work on the fly. “What can I give you?”

Crowley grinds against his thigh and moans, hands buried in the soft white curls of Aziraphale’s hair. “Need you, angel, just need you.“

Aziraphale pushes Crowley’s trousers down, hands finding the bony jut of his hips and resting there, rubbing small circles into the skin there. He can’t quite bring himself to stop kissing him; it’s different, there’s a friction to the kisses that they haven’t had before. Something about the scratch and the burn of it threatens to renew Aziraphale’s arousal.

His hands wander up Crowley’s sides, under his shirt, resting between the bones of his ribs. His angles make him feel like fragile glass, Aziraphale doesn’t know why he wants to break him and impale himself on the shards.

He kisses Crowley deeply once more before gripping him tight and spinning him around. He pulls Crowley in close to him, one hand climbing up his chest under the shirt, the other making its way lower to wrap around the base of Crowley’s cock.

Aziraphale nuzzles his nose into the nape of Crowley’s neck, notes the shiver that comes along with it and the faint huff of laughter. So he _is_ ticklish, then.

“Tell me what you want, Crowley.”

“Angel… please…”

“You have to tell me,” Aziraphale whispers into Crowley’s skin, keeping his breath steady even as Crowley’s becomes erratic, “Use your words.”

“Aziraphale… I want you to touch me… and… and I want it to be slow and agonizing…” he trails off, babbling incoherently even as he tries to grind himself back further into Aziraphale’s arms.

“Very good, darling.” There’s a shimmer of ozone in the air followed by a sharp intake of breath at the coldness of the lube. Aziraphale starts his slow strokes from the base to the tip, just the speed that makes Crowley unravel.

Crowley thrusts forward into Aziraphale’s grip, throws his head back onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. His knees wobble and Aziraphale is sure that his hand on Crowley’s chest is the only thing keeping him from falling over entirely.

Aziraphale nuzzles Crowley’s cheek, delighted at the soft moans coming from Crowley’s mouth, but he wants more. “Did you know, I thought this might be what you wanted?”

“Y…yeah?”

“Oh yes, you can be quite insatiable when you put your mind to it,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. Crowley is grinding back down almost as much as he’s thrusting up and Aziraphale’s cock is more than a little interested. “I soundproofed the room, a small miracle really. But I want to hear you. I want to hear you scream my name, like I know you love to do. For you have been my strength, and in the shadow of your wings I will shout for joy.”

“ _Scripture,_ angel? Hrnnk…gah—“

“Ah but you knew what you were doing, parading yourself around in that tight suit, in a pattern you hate. Absolutely too far away for me to— ” he strokes an insistent thumb over the tip, squeezing in the way that drives Crowley mad “— _touch._ ”

Crowley keens and moans, he tries to buck forward, tries to grind back. Aziraphale can’t help himself as he presses Crowley tighter to his chest, grinding against Crowley’s backside, spit-slick cock gliding against the soft muscle of Crowley’s arse.

“Shh, shh, now then, I do have to wonder, while I’ve got you here so wonderfully pliant for me. Do you have any idea how good your mouth looks stretched around my cock —“

“ _Angel!_ ”

“Yes, that's what I am, but I can still appreciate the aesthetic of it. Like you were made to take me in. Beautiful and damnable creature that you are.”

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley breathes out, throwing an arm behind him around Aziraphale’s neck, getting what little leverage Aziraphale allows. “I can’t, I’m gonna—“

“Yes, darling, _yes,_ my only, my Crowley.”

Crowley comes shouting Aziraphale’s name; spilling over his hand as the angel bites down onto his shoulder. His teeth break through the white cotton of Crowley’s shirt, tearing through the fabric and not giving one single care about it. Crowley falls limp in his arms, letting Aziraphale rut against him. A few thrusts and Aziraphale comes for the second time, white streaks painting Crowley’s back, ruining both of their shirts where they’re pressed so close together.

They stay there for a moment, both of them coming down from their high. Crowley turns in Aziraphale’s arms, leans into him like a plant into the sun, pliant and breathing heavily and just wanting to touch. Aziraphale can hardly blame him, not when he’s relishing the contact just as much.

“Sun is setting soon.” Crowley says, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

“I suppose it is,” Aziraphale says, not letting Crowley go just yet. “You could… you could stay, you know.”

“What’d ya mean, stay? Can’t stay in the bloody study.”

“No, I mean, that is to say…there’s no reason you couldn’t come to the bookshop with me tonight. No reason we should have to say goodbyes just yet.”

“Angel…we can’t…”

“I know… but sometimes…” Aziraphale holds Crowley just a little tighter, just a little more possessively. The end is coming soon, and Heaven will want their blood. But Crowley is _his_ , and he won’t let them touch a hair on his head if he can help it. They’ve never spoken it aloud, but Aziraphale knows Crowley feels the same. Impossible to hide it, after all this time. All these centuries.

But now Crowley is staring up at him, a question in his eyes, a need there, too. 

“Sometimes…sometimes I wish we were on our own side…together…”

The words hang heavy in the air, the closest thing to a confession either of them have said. These things are not spoken, it’s too dangerous. 

“We are, Aziraphale…” Crowley says, barely a whisper, barely audible. They finally pull away from each other, clean themselves up and put themselves back together. Say their goodbyes against each other's lips before Crowley slithers out of the study, leaving Aziraphale in the darkening silence.

Here, in the silence and solitude, Aziraphale smiles. No matter what happens, they’ll do their best to stop what is to come. And whatever the case may be, they’ll be standing at the end of things together.

And for now, Aziraphale thinks, that will have to be enough.


End file.
